Friendship Drabbles
by FairMostFatal
Summary: The moments that make a friendship last a lifetime. Various friendship pairings.
1. When Jupiter Aligns with Mars

When Jupiter Aligns with Mars

Blair Waldorf has never once wanted to go to San Francisco and wear a flower in her hair. She doesn't care if peace ever gets its chance. She firmly believes that love is not all you need (money's pretty important too, along with food, clothing, shelter, and an extensive array of hair accessories), and she prefers the times to stay exactly as they are, thank you very much.

So sitting in the first row at the Al Hirschfeld Theater, watching her best friend snap her fingers and bop her dizzy head in time with the faux-1967 (but _vrais_ unwashed and sweaty) hippie belting out "I Got Life" from his perch on the arm rests of their chairs, Blair can't quite stifle her sigh.

"Why didn't you bring Humphrey instead of me? This is just his brand of freak show."

"Shhh!" Serena cautions, smiling brightly up at the (too-old-for-his-part, gonna-break-her-chair-with-his-flailing, fine, okay, pretty-damn-cute, but still, ew, an actor) hippie who hasn't stopped bellowing in their ears once this entire production.

Blair will plead Stockholm syndrome if anyone asks how Serena managed to get her on stage after the curtain call. Two-and-a-half hours of peace, love, and understanding wore down the will to resist kick lines with unrepentant drama geeks and Hawaiian shirt-clad Midwestern tourists excited to "do" Manhattan.

But, as Serena twirls in a cloud of turquoise and blonde, skirts and hair flying, her arms raised to the glory of the spotlights above, Blair tries an experimental shimmy—just a little twitch of her hips and a flip of her hair. Surrounded by prancing flower children and her beaming best friend, Blair takes off her headband, tosses it to her seat below, and feels her hair fall around her shoulders.

_Spotted: B and S, letting the sun shine in…_


	2. Subway Series

Subway Series

A guy walks into a sports bar wearing a suit.

This wouldn't attract much notice—the Upper East Side, after all, is Mecca to lawyers and investment bankers and management consultants, many of whom enjoy a beer and a ballgame on their way home from work—but it's three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. And the guy, Nate reflects, is only sixteen years old.

"Nathaniel," he mutters as he slides into the booth across from Nate, and Nate can tell by the twist of his lips that he's pissed to be east of Lexington, let alone in a Second Avenue bar. "Is that a tiki torch?" he asks with a sneer, gesturing at a piece of beach-themed décor.

The waitress brings over two Red Stripes and a smile for Nate. He gives her one back and kicks Chuck under the table before he can bitch about the lack of quality single malts on the drinks list, or the waitress's grass-skirt-over-jean shorts ensemble, or the crowd of former Ole Miss frat boys hooting at her ass as she walks away.

"Nathaniel, what are we doing here?"

"We're watching my Mets spank your Yankees."

Chuck's glances up at the TV over the bar, taking in the score. "Really? That's what we're doing?"

Nate swigs his beer. "Well, we will be in about three innings. Give or take. Maybe four."

Chuck shakes his head, unconvinced, and tries his beer. He shrugs—_acceptable, I guess_—and fixes Nate with a steady stare. "Nathaniel, how many times do I have to tell you—"

"Chuck, there's more to baseball than winning games!"

"Actually, there's not. The whole purpose of a baseball team is to win games. That's it. The Yankees have won more than any other team. The Mets haven't won a world series since before we were born. Thus, you should root for the Yankees."

Nate smiles. "You're not going to get me to give up my team, Chuck. I've gone to Mets games with my dad all my life. Besides, I like rooting for the underdog. It's more fun when they win."

Chuck sniffs with disapproval and raises his beer bottle, then sets it down abruptly. "Fuck me, Nathaniel, you're not in love with David Wright, are you?"

At that, Nate laughs. "No, dude, you know I'm with Blair. David Wright's a little too, uh, _male_ for me."

"Too bad. You two would be pretty together." Chuck grimaces and stands up from the booth. "I'm gong to pray that that bathroom is not crawling with sub-tropical diseases. You keep flirting with the waitress. Make sure we don't get cut off."

Nate finishes his beer while Chuck walks away, and then calls the waitress over just as A-Rod crushes one of Mike Pelfrey's curveballs into the outfield.

_Gonna be a long season…_


End file.
